#but without it the whole thing would be incomplete

[owlcafe]

Please feel free ignore my inane, barely-related ramblings

Perhaps the most memorable conversation of my life was with a bus driver, on the regular route I took home from university when I was a grad student. He and I had both landed a Tuesday graveyard shift, so I was the only person getting on this bus at 10pm or so. The week before, the bus had arrived late, while I was waiting, so this driver had come up to me and asked if I minded if he took his break now - apparently it was timed such that he would entitled to his break either now or after the return route. Without much thought I said something to the effect of "hell yeah brother rest up", for obvious enough reasons. The following week, it was raining, and I was scrambling to find cover in a place where I could still see the bus stop. The bus came early this time, and the driver rode up to the stop and let me on the bus early to get out of the rain. I didn't initially recognise him as the same driver, but apparently it had meant a lot to him that I hadn't flown into a rage insisting I be delivered home on schedule by an overworked and tired driver.

As you do, we got to talking, and the obvious course of the conversation was to ask what had gone wrong in our lives that we were mutually on this godforsaken bus at 10pm on a Tuesday night instead of doing literally anything else. His story was more or less what you expect - it was the best job available to him to make the kind of money you need to support a family these days. My story was simply that I'd signed on for a PhD, and with it a pretty good helping of teaching hours, including the occasional 5-9pm lab class (a process which, incidentally, more or less prevented me from having a driver's licence at the time. Don't worry about the details, but it's important to the story).

At this point, I had just begun the process of emerging from a series of self-loathing spirals - the one that stems from being an autistic child, then the one that comes from simply being 14, then the one that comes from being bisexual, then the one that comes from being non-binary, to the bonus round of growing up in a stereotypically male way while being non-binary and the unique way that makes you feel like your body is betraying you when your hair starts thinning at 19, and and fun and fresh ways these all bleed into each other. At some point in that whole whirlwind, I'd become quite convinced I wasn't going to make it out alive, despite never having any real risk to my life externally or even really internally, so my early to mid 20s were a period of discovering that I did indeed survive and now I needed a plan. This led to me falling into a lot of things just cause they sounded nice. I took a lot of odd jobs because they sounded interesting or paid well, I signed on to the PhD simply because I was asked to by my supervisor and I liked the idea of earning myself a gender neutral title, as if putting Dr [extremely common male name] on my mail was actually going to make people think twice about whether or not I was a man. This all to say, I was in the beginning of cultivating my "just a guy" self-image. It's easier, in that circumstance, to cut away the grandeur and the pompousness, because you can easily recognise them as fake. It's harder to cut away at the ways in which you undermine yourself, hate yourself, discredit yourself, because it feels like humility (and, especially in an emergent and incomplete social justice mindset, it's easy to invoke your privileges with the aesthetic of checking them, but the function of whipping yourself for "not earning" the things that you have, only further centralising your feelings as a member of the oppressor class).

To finally get to the point of all this, whenever you mention you're doing a PhD there's a pretty common social script that happens. The other person says that's very impressive, you bat it off, they say oh no I could never, and then you either make some joke about the absolute buffoons with PhDs you've inevitably met in your time in academia or just laugh awkwardly and move on. The bus driver starts the script normally, with an "oh that's very impressive" and I follow up with the canned response of "oh its not really all that, anyone could do what I'm doing". And then, I remember very precisely, he said "it seems that way to you because you can, the same way I think anyone could drive this bus because I can. But, I couldn't do what you do anymore than you could drive this bus."

And that pierced through it for me in a way that's really stuck with me. If I wanted to do the ivory tower academic thing, I could semantically dissect his statement - I could drive the bus and he could do my PhD, it's more accurate to say that the power structures surrounding us wouldn't have permitted it because I didn't have a licence to satisfy the local laws and he didn't have the educational background to pierce through the veil of graduate school exclusivity. I don't necessarily think it's literally true, what he said, but it was very powerful to me emotionally at the time. Because, in that moment in the bus at 10pm, we were both just some guy. We'd ended up in different places because of our circumstances, our identities, our choices, but we were still just some guy. In that moment, I had the same capabilities and limits as he did, just distributed differently. And for me, I'd spent most of my adolescence and much of my early 20s desperately projecting this ideal of like. A renaissance man, I guess? I needed people to believe that I was perfect, unlimited, infinitely skilled but also unflinchingly humble, lest they detect the parts of me that I assumed they would hate (because I hated them about myself). That someone I'd never really met before could so precisely and sincerely cut through it all, simultaneously denying me my instinct to degrade myself and reminding me that I am indeed subject to many and varied limitations, denying me even the privilege to bemoan that of course I can achieve these things because I'm white and middle class and so on, so I'm really not that remarkable. It really affected me. It brought me to a new level of being just some guy, and really helped me calibrate my vision of myself.

Obviously, it didn't fix everything in that single moment, but it helped me build a new frame I could use to look at things. If I started to feel shame or fear over not being able to do some particular thing that I wanted to do or felt compelled to do socially, I could remember that moment and how my path in life has given me limits as well as possibilities. And that's kept both halves of my ego in check ever since - I don't feel that I'm somehow entitled or should naturally have "lesser" skills on account of having access to "greater" ones (I can run advanced stats like nobody's business but I still can't drive a car), and I also don't feel the guilt and shame of not having certain skills that are considered basic because I have other skills that I've developed instead (yes I can't drive a car, but I can run advanced statistics).

I am once again just yapping with no real purpose but this idea really strikes a chord with me I guess. I just wanna say these things cause I want to. I don't particularly feel that there's untold wisdom or anything, it's a pretty milquetoast case of this whole thing occurring, but if anything I guess I feel compelled to pass on the wisdom I got from that bus driver that night. For better or for worse, we're all just some guy.

i really do believe that the answer to a lot of people's self hatred is not to try and reassure them that they are wonderful and okay and enough, but instead to remind them theyre a completely unremarkable regular ass person who is not the center of the universe or especially important so why would they expect themselves to be some superhuman savior. like there really is a kernel of out of control self importance at the heart of thinking youre an evil lazy piece of shit. because why would you expect you be anything but just like some guy. if you wouldnt expect the guy who works at the vape shop or your mailman or whatever to be able to do something then why would you expect yourself to? youre just some random ass person. its fine

[11chasty11]

[chanelle-lize]

I used to have a really hard time bringing up the fact that I graduated from high school a year late without feeling the need to explain why and insisting that it wasn't my fault while simultaneously kicking myself for how much I sounded like I was just making excuses for something I should take responsibility for.

Then I watched Dimension 20's "The Seven" and suddenly I could simply say that I was a super senior.

The first time I heard the phrase "super senior" was in reference to Antiope Jones, a Black girl who had been held back a year after getting kidnapped and imprisoned by members of a fundamentalist cult, and like, girl, same.

So, since then, instead of anxiously spinning out any time I tried to tell a personal high school anecdote, I could just say I was a super senior, and then my brain would auto complete that statement with "like Antiope Jones" and I'd feel good about myself because Antiope Jones Is That Bitch.

That's what the problem had been the whole time. I wasn't worried about how other people would perceive me; I had been struggling with how I perceived myself.

Thanks, Aabria.

[doctor-bus]

also this sequence was so cute. Thor was fucking READY. King of looking out for his friends.

[hyperlexichypatia]

I've seen basically two response arguments to Kennedy's slurs about autistic people being unable to pay taxes, have a job, play baseball, go on a date, write a poem, or use the toilet.

Both the responses are good and necessary, but I think they're incomplete. The two response arguments are essentially: 1. "That's not true, there are plenty of autistic people who have jobs and go on dates and play baseball," and 2. (largely in response to 1.) "Autistic people deserve acceptance and dignity even if they can't pay taxes or write poetry or use the toilet; people's value isn't determined by their abilities or productivity."

And, again, both of these responses are true and good and necessary. But what I'm not seeing people talk about enough is why Kennedy listed those specific skills, and what he's trying to imply with them. Because, see, when people are reduced to a dehumanized stereotype, "Not everyone is like that dehumanized stereotype" isn't sufficient, and neither is "Even people who are like that dehumanized stereotype deserve respect." The problem is the dehumanization. So let's look at the list of things we supposedly can't do, which Kennedy is using to conjure an image of "Inhuman Unthinking Blob."

Having a job. This is the big one. In American culture, your value, your personhood, is solely dependent on Your Job. Are you a valuable cog in the capitalist machine, or are you a cheap cog in the capitalist machine, or are you so worthless you're not even in the capitalist machine, and therefore have no reason to be alive? So it's good and necessary and important to spell out "A person doesn't have to have a job to be a person with dignity and rights." But there's a larger question out there, which is: What, exactly, constitutes "a job"? Yes, absolutely, everyone should have dignity and rights (and material needs like guaranteed housing, food, and consensual healthcare). But also, most disabled people, including ""severely"" disabled people, can and do perform productive labor benefiting their communities. It's just often labor that capitalist society doesn't classify as "a job," like caregiving, studying, or making art. It's important to say that people shouldn't need "a job" in order to deserve rights or resources. It's also important to point out that disabled people have been doing labor this whole time, just without the dignity, rights, or pay associated with "a job." In a socialist utopia where everyone had their material needs guaranteed, labor would still be done, and a lot of it would still be done by disabled people. That's important. Disabled people's contributions to society matter. And erasing that is something ableists do on purpose -- excluding the labor done by disabled people from the category of "job" is integral to excluding disabled people from the category of "productive" and thus the category "worthy of life."

Paying taxes. This is the most transparently ridiculous one, because absolutely everybody in the U.S. pays taxes. Poor people pay taxes (too much). Rich people pay taxes (nowhere near enough). Undocumented immigrants pay taxes. You buy a Snickers? It's priced $1.79 but you pay $1.92. That's a tax. You live somewhere? You're paying property taxes. You rent your home? How do you think your landlord pays their property taxes? From your rent. You're paying property taxes. You have a crappy underpaid minimum wage job? You're paying FICA. Everybody pays taxes. What Kennedy probably means to imply is "They're too poor to owe federal income taxes." Politicians love pretending that "taxes" means "federal income taxes" so they can claim to "lower taxes" while shifting the tax burden somewhere else (cf. Trump's attempt to claim that tariffs aren't taxes). And. And also. There's another subtle implication in there, that I see a lot from parents and ableists. Because of the deep intersection of ableism and classism, Kennedy is implying "They're too poor to owe federal income taxes" (therefore they're inferior) but also "They're not smart enough to do something complicated like file a tax return." When ableists talk about disabled people who "can't take care of themselves" or specifically "can't pay their bills" or "can't pay taxes," they're intentionally trying to conflate an economic state (having enough money to pay bills/taxes) with a cognitive ability (having the skills/executive function to manage money, budget, pay bills on time, or file a tax return). Kennedy probably doesn't file his own tax return either. I'm sure he has an accountant for that. Presumed-neurotypical people are allowed to do that. The world is full of rich people who lack executive function or money-management skills, whose wealth insulates them from the consequences of that, because they can either afford to just lose money, or they can afford to hire someone to handle it for them. The world is also full of poor people for whom one missed payment has ruined them. The world is also full of disabled people for whom one missed payment has gotten them declared mentally incompetent, institutionalized, or placed under guardianship -- by abled family members who probably hire an accountant to manage their own money. Again, all this is deliberate. Kennedy and other ableists/classists/eugenicsts are intentionally trying to conflate "lacks money," "lacks money management abilities/skills," and "lacks General Intelligence" as one more-or-less interchangeable phenomenon (Note: If you've read this far and haven't figured out my angle yet: There is no such thing as "General Intelligence" and the very concept is harmful).

Write a poem. Again, this is deliberately ambiguous wording -- pretty much anyone can write a poem, including people who can't write or speak. Have you ever expressed an idea in which the words you used had an additional meaning on top of their literal meaning? Boom, you can write a poem. Maybe not a good one. But Kennedy didn't say that autistic people's poetry is bad -- plenty of neurotypical people's poetry is bad too, after all. There is a somewhat positive stereotype floating around that neurodivergent people are creative. We may be tragic, burdens on society, our parents' heartbreak, worthless, stupid, subhuman, but at least we're creative. Probably due to being more animal-like, "closer to nature." And neurobigots like Kennedy absolutely hate this stereotype. No matter how much dehumanization the "positive" stereotype is rooted in, we cannot have any positive attributes at all. They must never let us forget that we have no redeeming value whatsoever. We must be rendered as completely lacking in thought, feelings, expression, and creation. I'm seeing some echos of 18th century racism, too -- a common belief among 18th century white Europeans was that even if non-Europeans were superficially clever, they could produce no "higher culture," no great art or poetry or literature, because they were intrinsically a lower tier of human. This seems to be the root of Kennedy's implication -- not that autistic people "can't" write poetry (anyone can), or that autistic people are bad at writing poetry (most beginners are), but that an autistic person's creative output cannot constitute true poetry, true "high culture," because it comes from an inferior mind.

Play baseball. This is an especially slippery one, because like writing poetry, it's a learned skill with gradations of skill level, not an intrinsic ability that someone does or doesn't have. Most autistic people aren't pro-level baseball players, but neither are most allistic people. And again, Kennedy didn't say "Autistic people are bad at baseball." He said that we would never play baseball. "Has ever played or will ever play baseball" is such a ridiculously low bar that even I can meet it. Technically speaking, I can play baseball. I have played baseball, in school gym class. I know how! You sit there minding your business until it's your turn to stand up, and then someone hands you a bat, and then someone throws a ball, and you're supposed to try to hit the ball with the bat, and in theory, after you fail three times, you're supposed to be allowed to sit back down again and go back to imagining wild self-insert fanfic, but the coach gives you "extra tries" out of pity, so you have to humiliate yourself with five or six attempts instead of three. Yeah. I can play baseball. So what's Kennedy going for with this one? Baseball in the U.S. is associated with two things: American identity, and idyllic midcentury childhood. If autistic people can't participate in America's Pastime, can we really even be Americans? Do we really count as citizens? I don't think Kennedy is personally, ideologically all that committed to xenophobia himself; he's just hitched his wagon to a deeply xenophobic administration because they indulge his medical conspiracy theories. But he knows how to align his goals to the administration's. He knows that his boss is deeply committed to narrowing and restricting who counts as "an American," who's not really part of "our culture," who's not really a part of baseball and hot dogs and the Fourth of July, if you know what I mean. Okay, okay. Maybe I'm reaching with this one. But I'm definitely not reaching with the other association he's going for: Idyllic Midcentury Childhood. All kids play baseball. By which I mean, all boys play baseball. I'm not sure Kennedy knows that girls can play it too, or that he cares. The point is, baseball is part of childhood, and autistic people are never children. We don't play, we don't learn, we don't go through developmental stages, we're just forever Mindless Blobs. That's why things that would be considered cruelty if done to neurotypical children aren't cruelty when they're done to us. We're not really children. We never become adults, either -- how can we, if we don't go through childhood first? You can tell we're subhuman because we don't go through the universal experiences of Real People Life.

Go on a date. Okay. This one. This is the one where I get actively angry at the well-meaning, "inclusive" responses. "Just because an autistic person has high support needs and can't do XYZ doesn't mean --" no. Stop right there. There is no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date. There is no impairment or disability that prevents someone from dating. There are people -- autistic and otherwise, disabled and otherwise -- who for whatever reason, choose not to pursue dating. Maybe they're aromantic, maybe they're loners, maybe they have religious objections, maybe dating just isn't something they're interested in. Fine. That's their choice. But there is no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date. There is no such thing as a disability that renders people incapable of romantic relationships. There is no such fucking thing as being "too disabled" or "too severe" or "too profound" or "too high support needs" to have a romantic relationship if two or more people want one. That is not a thing that exists. That is a thing ableists made up. There is no such thing as an autistic person who "can't" go on a date. There are autistic people who aren't allowed to go on dates, because their family or caregivers control them, infantilize them, restrict their freedoms, or treat them as mindless blobs. But all disabled people (yes, all) can pursue romantic relationships. All disabled people (yes, all) deserve the human right to pursue romantic relationships if they choose to. With other disabled people. With abled people. With whomever. And yeah, dating doesn't necessarily have to be romantic or sexual, but let me be perfectly clear -- disabled people, autistic people, "high support needs" autistic people have a right to have sex, too. A multiply disabled autistic person who needs 24/7 assistance deserves the absolute, unreserved right to have wild, kinky, balls-to-the-wall, whole-chicken sex with the entire starting lineup of the Detroit Lions, if xe so chooses to, and if said Lions are on board. We should not accept the premise that there is any such thing as a disabled person who "can't" go on a date.

Use a toilet without assistance. This is the Kennedy playbook trump card, but unlike some of the other claims, this one is actually true. There's no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date, but yes, there are in fact plenty of disabled people, including autistic people, who need help with using the toilet. So what's Kennedy going for here? He's trying to evoke two things: Disgust and infantilization. We have a visceral disgust around excretory functions. Needing to eliminate waste reminds us that we're animals made of meat, not the higher intellectual beings we pretend to be. Everyone poops. So we do it in private, we describe it with euphemisms, and if someone needs help with it, well, they're not keeping up their end of the social compact to collectively pretend we're not animals with animal bodily functions. So people who need assistance with the waste process are disgusting, subhuman, a violation of imagined purity. And of course, they're babies. Babies wear diapers. Babies need help using the toilet. So an older child or adult who needs diapers or toileting help is basically a big baby. We have entire election cycles centered on "Which candidate has incontinence issues?" as a proxy for "Which candidate is a big baby unfit to lead?" as though someone's bladder leakage has any bearing on their wisdom or policy positions. And of course, since people who need help with toileting Are Babies, we're meant to assume that they can't do any of those other things, either. They can't even use the toilet, let alone write poetry or go on a date. In reality, plenty of people who need toileting help are writing poetry and going on dates. One of the biggest misconceptions that holds disabled people back from education or, in some cases, from basic communication, is this myth of linear "developmental stages" -- that if someone isn't "smart enough" to master an "easier/earlier" skill, then they can't possibly be "smart enough" to master a completely unrelated skill that some abled person thinks of as "more advanced." This is literally the primary barrier to communication access for speech-disabled people, and the reason nonspeaking people who type to communicate are so often disbelieved -- if someone isn't "smart enough" to master a "baby skill" like talking, they can't possibly be "smart enough" to read and write! Nevermind that for many speech disabled people, reading and writing are much easier than speaking. And if someone isn't "smart enough" to use the toilet unassisted, they can't possibly learn any advanced topics at all, because they must the "mind of a baby." (The only people with the minds of babies are babies. A 50 year old with incontinence has the mind of a 50 year old.)

So. To sum up: Kennedy is intentionally evoking the concept of autistic people as The Abject Unthinking, and neither "Plenty of autistic people can do those things he says we can't do" nor "Disabled people deserve respect and dignity even if they can't do those things" fully addresses the dehumanization he's trying to conjure. Maybe I'm just jaded, too, about calls for "respect and dignity" for disabled people that don't challenge the concept of The Abject Unthinking. I see behavioral therapists, institution staff, and parents pursuing adult guardianship talking about "respect and dignity." I see articles about how to restrain and forcibly drug people with "respect and dignity." Ableists literally murder disabled people in cold blood in the name of "respect and dignity." I don't know what "respect and dignity" means to these people, but it's sure not synonymous with "bodily autonomy" or "civil rights." By this point, I consider "respect and dignity" about as meaningful as "thoughts and prayers." All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, express themselves. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, make their own decisions about their own bodies. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, participate in their communities. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, pursue relationships with other people of their choice.

[bemusedlybespectacled]

what's happening with James Somerton right now: a probably-incomplete primer

TW: suicide, including suicide as a threat and a manipulation tactic.

The short version:

James Somerton is a former Youtube essayist who focused entirely on queer history, queer media criticism, and queer issues in general. He is also a flagrant grifter who has made tens of thousands of dollars via fraud, both directly (lying about his finances to beg for money and getting donations for films he never even started making) and indirectly (stealing whole essays and articles and books, reading them out loud verbatim for his videos without indicating they were anything other than his own work, and then using the prestige he gained from using their work to get Patrons and sponsorships).

The story as told James and James apologists was that James attempted to apologize twice, was hounded mercilessly on the internet for weeks, and then, driven to the end of his rope, he posted a suicide note on Twitter, was MIA for several days, and from then on has been avoiding the internet.

The actual story, as revealed yesterday, was that James used two sockpuppet accounts to defend himself and parrot his talking points (again, while publicly claiming to be trying to take responsibility for his actions), using one to try to rebrand the con under a different name and another to deliberately stoke the panic caused by his suicide note. He was not only aware of the pain and anxiety he was causing people, but he encouraged it on one alt while hornyposting about his favorite movies on the other.

He is an unrepentant con artist who successfully used a suicide threat to prevent further interference with future cons. The only reason he was caught is because he is apparently incapable of going more than a couple of weeks without trying to get back in the internet spotlight, allowing people to tie his alts back to him. He lies for fun and profit and he should not be taken seriously, ever.

The long version:

In December 2023, Youtube essayist Hbomberguy (Harry Brewis) put out a four-hour-long video about plagiarism on the internet, and devoted two hours to addressing as much of JS's plagiarism as he could. I strongly recommend watching the entire thing, as the first two hours build on the concepts that he uses later in the video.

He also blew the whistle on James' fraud surrounding Telos, a studio James founded using thousands of dollars of IndieGoGo money that never actually produced any films despite him definitely working on them! Any day now they'll be released! Don't you worry!

A day later, Todd in the Shadows, a guy whose entire thing is music reviews, posted his own video debunking multiple outright lies that James had told about history, especially queer history. A few more days later, The Ace Couple, who run a podcast about asexuality, released an episode detailing how they'd lost $1.5k donating to Telos.

I have put the videos, Twitter threads, Patreon posts, and Reddit posts by other people discussing different aspects of James' fraud under the cut.

Every other time James was caught plagiarizing, prior to Harry's video, he would lie about it. Either he'd have some excuse (easily proven to be a lie) or he'd retreat to his favorite deflection: "I'm just being harassed because I'm gay."

This last lie was one he'd use not only to deflect accusations of plagiarism, but all criticism in general, no matter how trivial. Every time, the critic or someone associated with them would somehow dox him, or harass him, or send him death threats, or threaten to falsely accuse him of sexual assault.

This happened to The Ace Couple (who'd tried to correct him on something extremely acephobic in one of his videos), Jessie Gender (who'd tried to correct him when he claimed that there were no queer content creators on Nebula, given that she and a bunch of other queer creators were definitely on that platform), and the person who first blew the whistle on him stealing from Tinker Belles and Evil Queens by Sean Griffin (who was accused of being behind death threats he'd received, and hounded so harshly they had to leave Twitter).

It is important to note that every time James faced potentially damaging criticism, or even just a threat to his ego, suddenly he would claim to be harassed by people connected to the critic, including threats to his life. There has never been any proof of any threats being directed at him, nor evidence that, if the threats were real, that they are actually from people connected to the critic.

In the original video by Hbomberguy, Harry makes a compelling argument that James brought on a friend of his, Nick, as a co-writer specifically as a shield against accusations of plagiarism. "How dare you accuse me of plagiarism! Nick would NEVER do that!" This is even more apparent given subsequent developments which I will get into.

When evidence started dropping about different aspects of his fraud (not only Harry's video, but Todd in the Shadows' video debunking his misinfo, The Ace Couple's podcast about their experience donating to his fraudulent film studio, and Dan Olson's tweet thread about James' obvious lies about his finances), he went into hiding for two weeks, and then put out the first of two apologies. He then deleted that one and put out another one a few weeks later. And then he immediately deleted that one.

While his first apology was rambling, vague, and dramatic (lots of sniffing/crying), and his second was more measured, thought-out, and totally batshit (lots of hilariously and bizarrely implausible excuses for why he'd done what he'd done), they had roughly the same points:

Not ALL of his stuff was plagiarized! Actually, a lot of it wasn't! No specifics as to what, though!

Most of the stuff that was plagiarized was just a failure to properly cite sources, as he had no idea that putting someone's name in your end credits or video description (without specifying what parts are attributable to that person or disclosing that you are using their words verbatim) is not sufficient credit,

Also, he totally had permission, in some cases, to use their work verbatim prior to publishing the video (this is not true, and is disproven both in Harry's video and his own screenshots);

He definitely didn't commit fraud with Telos and would soon have a good explanation for where the money went! (he did not)

He was going to keep the videos up so that he could either donate the funds from any monetization to the fund Harry had set up for his victims or to "help Nick's portfolio" by showcasing his work;

He lost his best friend (i.e. Nick) over these allegations, who absolutely definitely wasn't a scapegoat, except Nick was also responsible for a lot of the stuff James was being criticized for;

He was going to keep the videos up so he could either donate the advertising proceeds to Harry's fund for his victims (first apology) or to "help Nick's portfolio" by showcasing the work he'd done; and

As a result of this entire ordeal, he had attempted either self-harm or suicide (he merely alluded to "doing something stupid").

Again, his response was to 1) downplay the severity of his actions or flat out ignore allegations against him, 2) come up with ridiculous excuses for his behavior, 3) throw Nick under the bus, and 4) claim to be in mortal danger. As far as I am aware, he has never taken any concrete action to make amends to any person, not even donating money to charity.

This was coupled with some kind of attempt to profit: monetizing his apology videos, closing and then reopening his Patreon right before the monthly charge cycle happened (totally to let people unfollow him, not at all as a grab for that money), creating a new Patreon under a different name, and changing his Twitter and Youtube handles to distance himself from the controversy while gathering new followers.

At one point (I forget if this was on Twitter or Instagram), he also said that someone had broken into his apartment due to the notoriety he'd received from Harry's video. I believe that was after his first apology, when people started to point out that he'd just changed the name of his Twitter and Youtube channel and had restarted a new Patreon under a pseudonym. (BTW, the pseudonym he used for his new Patreon was "The Gay Raconteur"; this will be important later).

It had what I think was the desired effect: any attempt at pointing out that he was rebranding his grift now came across as weirdly fixated on minor things he was doing, which certainly wasn't worth putting him in physical danger. (Again, he has never provided any proof of this happening, nor provided any evidence that these people allegedly threatening him were, in fact, in some way inspired by Hbomb).

So along comes March 5, 2024, and James posts a suicide note on his Twitter, saying that he is going to set up his videos to automatically publish (for Nick's portfolio), provide in some way for the ad revenue to go to a suicide prevention nonprofit, and then kill himself.

The immediate response from the internet was compassion and totally chilling any further criticism, since you might be callously criticizing a dead person. Harry and Kat worked for a couple of days to get a wellness check for him while a substantial section of the internet called them murderers.

On March 6, a day after the note was published, Nick tweeted that that he had cause to believe James was fine. Kat confirmed that James was safe on March 11. Due to the drama of the "suicide attempt," however, the chill on criticizing James stayed in place for months.

And then yesterday Lady Emily, one of the cowriters for Sarah Z., drops two more bombs:

James has not one but two alt accounts that he was using to rebrand and start over.

The first one was created between his first and second apologies, and originally was for "The Gay Raconteur" until he changed it to "Will"/"thatgayyouknow" and, later, "The Achillean Boy."

The second one was much older, under the pseudonym "Mikey JB," and used stolen pictures from Grindr instead of his own face. However, it is pretty obvious that it is, in fact, a sockpuppet account and not just some other person who happens to like James, as detailed below.

Both accounts, both between apologies and after his "suicide," talked about how criticism of James was unfair because the plagiarized stuff was "like a decade old" and repeating the same excuses that James had also made.

The "Mikey JB" account not only supported James, but actively threw Nick under the bus, saying that a criticized part of a video "reeks of his co-writer."

On March 6, the day after James' main Twitter posted the suicide note, The Achillean Boy account was hornyposting about Ryan Phillipe. James didn't even take a day or two off of Twitter. If he had been completely off Twitter for a couple of days, that could have been an indication that he really had hurt himself and was unable to access his phone, or at the very least unaware of the panic. But he wasn't. He was aware of it and did nothing. Actually, no! Worse than nothing!

On the same day (March 6), the Mikey JB account was actively contradicting Nick saying he was okay (they "haven't spoken in months" so there's no way Nick could know if he was alive) and saying that "people like you" i.e. his critics, "drove him to it." Not only did he ignore the panic he'd intentionally created, he actively drove it.

He saw people going emotionally through the wringer over the idea that they might have somehow caused his death, and intentionally made them keep thinking it. He say people calling his critics "murderers" for "driving him to his death," and he joined in.

Why am I explaining all of this? I want to make a couple of things extremely clear, and the context is necessary to my ultimate points, namely:

James Somerton didn't merely "credit people improperly;" he conned his followers out of more money than some people make in a year with the Telos con, while raking in thousands more per month on Patreon and buying expensive equipment, while claiming to be near insolvency and in desperate need of money.

James Somerton has never taken full responsibility for his actions or attempted to make amends. He has only ever tried to dodge responsibility, particularly by throwing Nick under the bus.

Every time he has ever been criticized, for any reason, he has lied about threats to his life to gain sympathy and quell criticism. This is a standard part of his MO. He has done this over and over and over again. At this point, I think if he says the sky is blue, someone should go out and check first before doing anything.

"But BB, what if he really is getting harassed/threatened or really is suicidal?"

So, okay: people who are attempting to manipulate you may use legitimate problems as a tool. It doesn't need to be fake to be effective - in fact, it might be more effective if it it's true. An abusive ex who says "if you leave me, I'll kill myself" and genuinely means it and actually attempts it (and possibly even succeeds!) is a lot harder to leave than someone who says the same thing but is clearly just bluffing, because the threat is real.

My rule of thumb in these cases is to treat the threat like it's real, without caving to the intended manipulation. Whether your ex is lying or telling the truth when they say, "I'll kill myself if you leave me," the appropriate response in both cases is to immediately call a mental health service or supportive family member. If it's fake, it's inconvenient for them; if it's real, you reacted appropriately. Your response needs to be the same regardless.

You don't get back together with them because it's a real threat (presumably you wouldn't do that if you knew it was fake and they were never in any danger), and you don't tell them that they're a piece of shit who should be dead (HOPEFULLY you wouldn't do that if you knew for a fact that they were telling the truth).

In this case, I am extremely confident in saying that he was coldbloodedly lying the entire time and was never once threatened, and certainly not to the degree he claimed to be. But even if he wasn't, that does not and should not change anyone's behavior in terms of holding him accountable.

And I mean actually holding him accountable: making sure he doesn't try to start a new con on new people, continuing to point out that he hasn't paid anyone back for his previous con (so long as it's still true), that sort of thing. It doesn't mean people should tell him he should go die for real or, I don't know, try to get him fired if he gets a job at Tim Horton's or Target or something else that's not fraud. That would be wrong regardless of whether he's actually in danger or not. The point is to avoid being cruel without negotiating with terrorists.

Video sources and links under the cut:

Links:

It's like Breaking Bad, but backwards: a brief history of how Somerton successfully screwed himself Dan Olson's Twitter thread about the financial fraud My Year With James: Todd's post explaining the backstory of his video (Patreon-locked) DJSO#: Dan Olson's breakdown of James' second apology (Patreon-locked) Lady Emily's Twitter threads revealing James' alt accounts, part 1 and part 2

[comicaurora]

Do you think ethics are just an attempt at being a healthier form of selfish?

In one of your Detail Diatribes where Batman confronts Catwoman and tries to stop her from killing Falcone, you highlighted the fact that his reasoning was not to protect her father, but to try and save her. Ever since, some very strange ideas about the nature of selfishness and selflessness have been rattling around my head.

It only started coming into focus when I tried to put into words why it was a bad thing that D-16 killed Sentinel Prime. My best answer right now is because it made D-16 into Megatron. Orion wasn't trying to save Sentinel, he was trying to protect the cybertronian people. Maybe if Orion focused more on saving D-16, they wouldn't have lost their friendship and all of Cybertron would be better for it. Of course, in the end, Megatron was the deciding factor in making himself, caring more about his pride than his current identity, but this highlights a strange selfish quirk in sustainable selfless behavior.

If you are purely selfless you suffer from spending more of yourself than you have to give. If you're too selfish you can't maintain the human connections that are a requirement for being a complete and healthy person. It leaves the best options as being selfless to make your environment an easier one for you to live in. Where your actions for others are repaid by the selflessness from your community. Or, being selfish with your charity. Taking care of what you care about because their well being positively contributes to your own.

To be fair, the opening sentence now looks like an incomplete thought. It probably should be asking if you think ethics is just an attempt at being a more healthy form of selfish and selfless. Really, just asking if ethics is meant to make you better at being a person, which seems like a question that can answer itself. Still, it feels like an important insight to highlight that to be ethical isn’t about how much of your own life you're willing to sacrifice. It's hard to be a good person when you're not a person anymore.

This is a fascinatingly deep question, and I'm very tickled that our two touchpoints in it are a transforming robot tank and Batman.

My personal opinion is that ethics and morals are not reflections of some universal truth of Justice and Goodness, as they are often framed, but are instead best-practice guidelines on how to function in the big, messy world without causing undue suffering to yourself and others. A facet of this is determining, case by case, how much you need to prioritize yourself vs how much you can afford to help others - in the framing you've proposed, selfishness vs selflessness.

Taking the specific examples we're focusing on - two cases where someone attempts to prevent a revenge killing for the benefit, not of the victim, but of the avenger - I think they reflect this worldview, that the killing is not seen as some innately universally-judged evil act that must be prevented for its own sake, but that the act of killing will harm the killer in a way the person trying to stop them doesn't want to see.

For Catwoman, committing premeditated murder wouldn't solve any of her problems in any way that arresting Falcone and having him legally unraveled would. It'd just park a first degree murder charge on someone who'd up til this point only dealt with petty larceny, and it would potentially weigh her down with misery and regret as she grappled with the trauma of taking a life.

For Megatron, killing Sentinel Prime wasn't a bad action because he deserved to live. They just spent that whole fight scene tearing through enemies. They're warriors on track to spend the next four million years killing each other; the whole "taking a life" ship has already sailed. The problem is that Sentinel is a symbol and a structural part of the political narrative in the founding of the next stage of Cybertron's society. If the first thing the new regime does is bloodily avenge itself on the face of the old regime for the personal wrongs it did them, that proves that the only thing they care about is personal satisfaction of their individual desires - just like Sentinel. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss. If they can instead take a step back, think of the good of Cybertron as a whole, enforce a rule of law and a fair system of justice that applies equally to everyone, even on someone they personally loathe, that would signify integrity and credibility and the hallmark of wise, just and fair leadership capable of setting aside personal feelings for the greater good. It's not about Sentinel; it's about whether the satisfaction of killing him is worth the price of enforcing forever that personal vendettas are more important than the well-being of the people of Cybertron. Which makes it really obvious which one Megatron is going to pick.

My hottest take, and I mean this very genuinely, is that most of the human perception of what constitutes goodness and justice is one thousand percent based on vibes, and is extremely susceptible to narrative reframing. We see an unsympathetic victim (Sentinel Prime, Falcone) who has gleefully caused suffering to innocent people (so judged because they are framed sympathetically, not because we've actually enumerated their lifelong actions to determine they've never done anything wrong) and we feel (feel) that it would be right and just for them to suffer consequences (emphasis on suffer) because that would balance the scales on this vibes equation and that would make us feel like justice had been served. Would this suffering lead to any material good? Not inherently. Would it heal the victims? Not usually. Would it remove the source of the problem? Categorically not, what with how negative reinforcement works (or rather does not work.) It also wouldn't do anything about the other people empowered by the same system to be just as shitty in just as many ways that just happen to be offscreen from our POV. But it feels fair. So what is justice, if it reduces down to "I want them to hurt for the hurt they've caused me"? If it can be sated with a spectacle or distracted by a long nap and a good joke to let the feeling fade? What purpose does this justice serve if it is devoted wholly to the satiation of a bone-deep chordate-brain hunger for Retributive Violence rather than towards actually ensuring that the lives of those harmed are healed and supported and built up again after being broken down? (This is the entire core character arc in The Batman, btw, I'm not just monologuing for no reason here. He calls himself Vengeance for a reason, and the reason is he's doing Batman wrong)

That feeling - that white-hot burning core of Righteous Fury - is the unexamined heart of many systems of morality that focus, not on doing good, but on exacting satisfying retribution on Bad People Who Deserve It, categorized as People Who I Can Hurt Without Feeling Bad Myself. It's a very tempting concept for people who have suffered at others' hands. That feeling, that powerful instinctual understanding of "that's unfair," is incredibly strong. In my opinion, most systems of ethics are built, not around relitigating what is Good and what is Bad per se, but in trying to shape and curb that bone-deep, unbelievably powerful desire to rend the flesh from the bones of your tormenters.

But I mentioned that feeling is susceptible to narrative reframing. This is, as I understand it, a huge part of lawyering. Tell the story of what happened using true events and adding no falsehoods, but highlight the parts that make it feel like your client is the one who is being treated unfairly. They're not an unsympathetic wrongdoer who you can punish without personal moral stain - they're a loving spouse, a parent of three adorable children, they have a really cute puppy, they donate to charity, they're a wonderful conversationalist, a kind friend, etc etc. All those things can also be true of people who do terrible things, but thinking about them defuses that White Hot Core by making us sympathize with the sympathetic parts of them.

This is incredibly well-understood in fiction. It's the whole reason the tropes Kick The Dog and Pet The Dog exist. When you want the audience to root for a character's destruction, leave aside any of their potential quiet moments of sympathy - their tragic backstory, their cute pet, their adorable relationship with their mom - and instead show them going out of their way to commit some minor act of petty cruelty, say Kicking The Dog. The audience will infer that this badness is 24/7 and they have no reason to curb their enthusiasm for Righteous Vengeance. But if the writer wants the audience to see a spark of good in them, to sympathize, to believe they can be redeemed, they'll highlight one of those small moments of charming kindness, and allow them to Pet The Dog instead.

Neither of these acts, in the grand scale, have any bearing on the morality of this person's actions. A pet dog doesn't counterbalance a razed village; a kicked dog doesn't negate a generous contribution to the local soup kitchen. Goodness and badness is not a linear scale added or subtracted to by opposing deeds. BUT showing them to an audience reframes them narratively, and THAT is what shapes the judgment of the White Hot Burning Core. In the space of fiction, this form of bottom-shelf emotional manipulation is one of the cleanest ways to get the audience to root for the messy destruction of what is ostensibly, in the universe of the fiction, a wholly complex and living person who definitely has reasons for everything they've done, even ones that could be framed sympathetically when shown.

Meanwhile, in the real world, ethics are an attempt to judge what is best in a given situation without trusting the White Hot Burning Core to make the call, no matter how compelling "but it would feel really good though" might seem. They try to give someone perspective, context, other priorities to consider. The White Hot Burning Core might want you to rip someone's arms off for driving slow when you've got important places to be, but Ethics can present a number of compelling reasons not to do that - even if it's just "ripping their arms off will definitely make me even more late." And yes, this can be a balance of Selfishness Vs Selflessness. You are one of the people whose wellbeing ethics is designed to make you prioritize improving even if it feels weird, and when all other things are equal, your own health and happiness can be the deciding factor. In a world with an overarching Moral Force that weighs the goodness of your soul by sifting through every grain of action and intent seeking negativity to punish you for, absolute selflessness to the point of self destruction would still probably be seen as Morally Wrong, simply because the universe is a better place with you in it trying your best.

Anyway, if doing the right thing was simple, easy and painless, we probably wouldn't have so many thousands of years of arguing about what it looks like. Good luck out there everybody 👍

[lesbworth]

a probably incomplete list and rating of all the britcoms i have watched and how gay they are

somehow, during my short life, i have managed to watch an obscene amount of britcom, mostly through family osmosis. this probably explains a lot about who i am today. i have recently been thinking about just how many of these things have passed through my eyeballs over the years and also just how many of them range from kind of to very to unbelievably gay. so here is a list rating how gay they all are out of 10 because i always love a list!

notes:

many of these i watched at a tender age so i remember kind of fuck all and i have not rewatched any for the purposes of this. so be aware that several of these reviews are based on hazy recollections of vibes

yes some of the ones with canon queer characters are going to have lower ratings than some of the ones without that's simply how the cookie crumbles. sometimes a show is just packed to the absolute brim with pure trademark typically english inexplicable repressed homoeroticism and it makes it feel gayer than one where a character came out

let's say 5/10 is what i consider the "average" level of britcom homoeroticism but other than that there's no system to the ratings just vibes fr

-

1960s

dad's army

this is probably the one i started watching at the youngest age, but i watched so damn much of it. i was too young to be looking out for this kind of thing but considering it fits the classic britcom format of revolving around the strong bonds between a cast that fails to pass the bechdel test i'm gonna make an educated guess at 3/10. there's probably old man yaoi in there somewhere. (and if i had to pick the main ship it would clearly be mainwaring/wilson)

1970s

all creatures great and small

i mean. OBJECTIVELY. it is not gay. it's literally based on real people who as far as we know were not in the least gay. but THERE'S JUST A WEIRD VIBE. AM I CRAZY? TELL ME I'M NOT CRAZY 5/10 (it's probably partly a side effect of watching this as a babygay since i would basically headcanon the whole main cast of anything i watched as bisexual. good times. i also had tristan farnon gender envy)

fawlty towers

really heterosexual vibe i will not lie. at least 60% propped up by classic i hate my wife humour. if there's anything queer in there it did not impress itself upon me 0/10 at least it inspired vicious

the good life

ostensibly this is about two married couples but it emits such an oddly bisexual energy??? like they're a polycule. to me. which is already basically canon since they have the whole wifeswap dynamic but i mean tom and jerry (yes really) are giving exes and margo and barbara have probably snogged a couple of times. TO ME. 6/10

only when i laugh

on balance i think it's probably at least a bit homoerotic considering the bechdel test metric again but despite having decently clear memories of it i can't think of anything particularly. i'll give it a 4/10 and as a raffles fan christopher strauli being there adds a point LMAO

porridge

despite being set in a men's prison i don't think it gets a very high score... let's go 4/10 because i'm sure there's enough there to go off of. pretty sure there were also many jokes about gay sex as can be expected. also inspired red dwarf

rising damp

going to be so for real the main thing i remember is the racism. 1/10? there are enough male characters that there might have been something idk

to the manor born

i mean it's a straight romance but it's not toooo hetero. audrey and marjory are kind of schoolgirl exes yuri #if you think about it. in fact i remember a scene where they're gushing about how they both had a crush on one of their schoolmistresses? 5.5/10?

whatever happened to the likely lads?

i THINK i've watched episodes of this. i know my parents have the box set. but i cannot for the life of me recall anything from it. just based on the premise though, i'll give it a strong 5/10

1980s

'allo 'allo!

girl... i forgor. i don't think so? i mean let's give it 3/10 for being set in france. also i have been reminded that there's an implied gay nazi, diversity win

blackadder (all series)

absolutely. "i cannot conceive", etc and so on. the crossdressing shenanigans. fry & laurie are there. just has a fruitiness about it generally. 7/10

only fools and horses

eeehh. all-male main cast but they're a family which hinders its ability to serve homo. generally giving very straight energy. 1/10 in case i forgot something

red dwarf

the fucking show that led me to make this ranking in the first place. grant naylor you will be dealt with. 10/10

a very peculiar practice

i didn't watch much of this and it was a long time ago but distinctly remember getting some kind of A Vibe. and looking it up apparently one of the main characters is canonically bi?? damn 7/10

yes, minister (and yes, prime minister)

look. LOOK. there's just something about it. it's the father of the thick of it which is british succession to me. also sir humphrey is homosexual there is literally no other way to read him nigel hawthorne told me himself actually. go and watch the homoerotic wispa ad 7/10

you rang, m'lord?

i actually haven't watched any full episodes of this but i must give it a 7/10 for the inclusion of CISSY the stylish 1920s aristocratic butch communist who could have walked right out of le monocle. love it

1990s

drop the dead donkey

this was such a deep cut i actually forgot it existed until making this list. i know i watched quite a lot of it to be honest but i can't remember shit other than that i liked one of the women's hair. i think it was pretty straight? NEVERMIND THERE'S A LESBIAN IN IT HOW DID I FORGET ABOUT A WHOLE LESBIAN 6/10

father ted

to be honest i don't think this comes from quite the same place homoeroticism-wise as most of the others on this list given that it's irish and not english (not to disparage oscar wilde of course!). catholic yaoi...? i really don't think so 2/10 for the catholicism also get fucked graham linehan

jeeves and wooster

let's be serious now. 9/10 i <3 gay people. i was raised on the books which also probably explains a lot about me... and naturally i have also always gotten severe gender envy from bertie

mr. bean

is mr. bean really considered britcom. can i leave him out. i'm going to leave him out

one foot in the grave

now i am certain i have watched this because i remember the theme song and vaguely the title sequence but i also forgot about its existence until this list. honestly i think it was just giving constant i hate my wifeism even the imprint where a memory once was of it that i have feels tiring 0/10

the royle family

painfully straight but in the way your irl straight friends are. if that makes sense. 1/10

2000s

black books

maybe i watched this at an overly impressionable age but like... it's giving. it's got the odd couple the domesticity the found family if you will. the m/f platonic relationships. also tamsin greig in that haircut? i remember always being so unconvinced that fran was straight that woman looks sooo lesbian 8/10 and FUCK graham linehan

the it crowd

very classic britcomism (you're my wife roy! you're my wife!!!) and i mean the guys snog on screen that is very much a thing that happened. also i just don't really think richard ayoade can totally play straight despite being a straight man. also the main three kind of have rancid bisexual polycule potential. also there's a goth. also i would watch gay! a gay musical. 7/10 AND FUCK GRAHAM LINEHAN!!!!!!

peep show

classic britcom homoerotic odd couple except one of them is actually bisexual and played by a bisexual actor. and the other is "possibly bi but basically uncurious". and they ALSO snog on screen. i haven't watched much of this to my shame but I Know What It Is 8/10

the thick of it

BRITISH SUCCESSION. i swear to god you would all be foaming at the mouth about this if it came out at a time and context to be big on tumblr. malcolm tucker god's worst bisexual 7.5/10 by the way that's an incredibly homophobic headline you massive poof!

2010s

ghosts

8.5/10 right off the bat brother firstly it's a six idiots show which already guarantees a high score but also it's genuinely very sweet with regards to canon queerness and the characters are flamboyant and lovable in a way guaranteed to attract the kind of queer fandom it has today. captain my beloved

upstart crow

i mean of course it's about shakespeare and it doesn't shy away from implying he's queer but the general vibe is not suuuper fruity. i'll say 6.5/10

vicious

this is what i'm TALKING ABOUTTT i'm so glad this show exists in the world. genuinely what would we even do if there WASN'T a show about ian mckellen and derek jacobi being a gay couple of 50 years who hate each other 11/10

yonderland

i feel like this makes ghosts too low but i wanted to put yonderland a bit higher for the sheer amount of environmental queerness knocking about in there and also the general campiness of it all. six idiots moment. 9/10 the elders are incredible ho-tan you will always be famous queen

2020s

staged

yeah. 9/10

-

thank you for reading 🙏 honestly i basically just made this for the appeal of making A List but absolutely feel free to argue with me about the ratings, suggest your own fav britcoms not listed here, et cetera

(also have fun spotting the same fucking people in half of them LMAO. i fear british tv is never beating the 3 actors allegations)

[jungwnies]

sfw alphabet | kimi antonelli (ka12)

୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : sfw a-z alphabet for kimi antonelli ୨ৎ : word count : 652

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

(a/n) : don't forget to like & reblog !! my requests are open!

a ⤖ affection (how affectionate is he? how often does he show affection?)

kimi is reserved in public but affectionate in private.

small touches mean everything

hand on your lower back, fingers grazing yours absentmindedly.

doesn’t always say i love you but always makes sure you know it.

b ⤖ beginning (what would he be like as a bsf; how would the friendship start?)

starts off a little distant but slowly warms up.

once you’re in his circle, he’s protective and reliable.

would probably start as a casual friendship through racing or mutual friends.

c ⤖ cuddles (does he like to cuddle; how would he cuddle?)

not overly clingy, but when he does cuddle, he likes lying on his back with you tucked against his side.

if he’s exhausted, he’ll literally trap you under his arm and not let you move.

d ⤖ domestic (does he want to settle down; how good is he at cooking and cleaning?)

sees a stable home life as something to work towards, not something to rush into.

can cook a few basic meals but would rather order in.

keeps things organized but not obsessively clean.

e ⤖ ending (if he had to break up with you; how would he do it?)

wouldn’t drag it out or play games.

he’d be direct and honest.

doesn’t handle emotional conversations well but wouldn’t avoid it.

f ⤖ fiance (how does he feel about commitment; would he want to get married quick?)

believes in commitment but takes it seriously.

would want to really be sure before proposing.

g ⤖ gentle (how gentle is he; emotionally + physically?)

physically, he’s careful and controlled, always aware of his strength.

emotionally, he’s learning, shows support in actions rather than words.

h ⤖ hugs (does he like hugs; how often does he hug you?)

prefers quick, meaningful hugs unless he’s tired, then you’re not going anywhere.

i ⤖ i love you (how fast does he say he loves you?)

doesn’t say it quickly

he’ll show it before he verbalizes it.

j ⤖ jealousy (how jealous does he get? how does he react?)

he won’t make a scene, but his energy shifts when he’s jealous.

stays quiet but suddenly very close to you.

k ⤖ kisses (what are his kisses like?)

slow, meaningful, and lingering.

forehead kisses are his go-to.

l ⤖ little ones (how is he around children?)

a little awkward at first, but softens up quickly.

m ⤖ morning (how are mornings with him?)

not much of a morning person. prefers slow starts and quiet coffee.

n ⤖ night (how are nights spent with him?)

loves staying up watching something with you, even if you fall asleep first.

o ⤖ open (does he open up easily?)

takes time to trust, but once he does, you get everything.

p ⤖ patience (how easily angered is he?)

generally patient but has his limits, especially when frustrated.

q ⤖ quizzes (how much does he remember about you?)

remembers everything

favorite snacks, random facts, what makes you laugh.

r ⤖ remember (what is his favorite moment in the relationship?)

the first time you fell asleep on him, completely trusting him.

s ⤖ security (how protective is he?)

quietly protective, always making sure you’re okay.

t ⤖ try (how much effort does he put into things?)

always puts effort into the things that matter, especially when it comes to you.

u ⤖ ugly (what are some of his bad habits?)

can be emotionally reserved, sometimes forgets to communicate feelings.

v ⤖ vanity (how concerned is he with his looks?)

keeps himself well-groomed but isn’t obsessed with appearance.

w ⤖ whole (would he feel incomplete without you?)

wouldn’t admit it outright, but yes, you’re his calm place.

x ⤖ xtra (random headcanon)

always rests his hand on your thigh while driving.

y ⤖ yuck (what are his dislikes?)

hates unnecessary drama and loud, chaotic situations.

z ⤖ zzz (what are his sleeping habits?)

sleeps best when you’re next to him, arms lazily wrapped around you.

2021-2024 © jungwnies on tumblr | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

[emberwhite]

Do people judge a book by its cover? They absolutely do. They take one look at this, and they either often instantly hate it or love it.

Talking about how things should be is just yelling into the void. There is just reality. And this is the reality of being a self-published indie author.

People make complete conclusions based off of incomplete information. In this case, my book, there are no adults pressuring the boy into getting any surgery. There's no mention of surgery at all even. This person is thinking of a children's book written by a very popular political figure. Some people have had the courtesy to ask me if it's like that book. It's not at all. It's not even political. It's a story told from the perspective of a kid who grows up knowing they are very different and yet can tell no one about it. Even saying a word about it would bring all of his deepest and darkest fears into reality.

The challenge was to make the story as dark and scary as I could without ever going too far for a children's book. There are already some scary children's books and movies out there that prove what's possible, and I worked with my illustrator, Marta, to push it as far as we could go. There's one page we had to re-do almost completely because even I said that's a bit much.

But I'm very happy with the final result because we also got to do so many fun and colorful pages like this.

There will be plenty more drive-by reviews as the book continues to grow and grow. They take one look and see a soapbox to express all of their disappointments and frustrations in life.

I think they might be scared of the book. The world they grew up in is slowly fading away day by day, and it's all they have come to know. They've been around for so long that everything has become a bore to them, and the only remaining pleasure is to escape into the past in order to better preserve it. I can oddly relate, actually.

So the book is on Amazon, and you can watch the whole thing for free on YouTube as well. If you get the chance, let me know what you think. Literally, watching it for free and then giving it a simple rating on Amazon is the best way to support the book. But I also love waking up to reviews like this every day.

[ronearoundblindly]

Cozy

platonic Bucky Barnes x Alpine!Reader Steve Rogers x shapeshifter!Reader

part of Companion Animal (see previous or series)

Summary: After months of 'knowing' Alpine, Steve and Bucky get to see, hear, and touch you, the real you, for the first time.

Warnings for subtlety and incomplete discussions. They're breezing over some of the deeper stuff since everyone is carefully trying to get to know each other. Forgive them their awkwardness...and my lack of editing. I stuck very close to my standard of "IT'S JUST CUTE, FLUFFY PUNS" which is likely a warning at this point. WC 1.3k

“You cold? Hungry? Thirsty?”

His forgiving, light hold anchors you in place like lead. Steve’s warmth is radiant, heavy without mass or malice. Somehow the weight of expectant words has you tongue-tied as he sits up at the ready.

He’s whispering a long list of possibilities. “I could get you some water. Or coffee? Or do you prefer tea? Have you eaten anything since yesterday?” He reaches for the untouched pile of clothes on the table, reminding you to tuck the blanket tighter around your chest. “I should have brought you clothes,” he mutters absently.

“And how would you—“ Bucky grunts and stretches his neck without opening his eyes yet “—pick out clothes for her?”

“I got a good enough look,” Steve says simply and instantly. “It’s…a skill from my stage days.” He shifts out from under your legs, blushing. “Dancers talk about their sizes all the time, so…let me get you that water, babygi—oh god, I’ve—I forgot your—”

Bucky snorts. “Know her bust and hip measurements but not her name, eh, punk? Oh yeah, you’ve got your priorities straight.”

“I’m just trying to be nice!”

“I need coffee,” Bucky groans, standing. “Guess I’m still the only one using their thumbs in this house.”

You playfully slap his leg, and Bucky jumps in faux hurt.

“Yikes, that’s worse than your angry-tail…Everyone want food? Great.”

“I can do it,” Steve rushes to help.

Perhaps because you’ve never spoken a word in this apartment, perhaps because they’ve never expected to hear you speak, perhaps because…they really, really want to make you some sort of drink in a human container, the men leave for the kitchen and continue to argue.

You look around at the bizarre and tiny difference in the room from your new perspective. The couch is large and deep but doesn’t swallow you whole anymore. The coffee table is not at a height you need to prepare for scaling. The plants are—still in need of water. Why can’t Bucky keep these things alive without you?!

Your fingers feel cramped, still clutching the blanket, so you scoop up the pile of clothing, wrap the throw around your back and skitter off to the bathroom, horrified to find there are bits of leaf stuck in your hair from last night. Once you see them, the grit smeared on your skin makes itself known, and you can’t imagine pulling borrowed clothing overtop this mess.

Fast as you can, you’re in the shower, scrubbing, willing yourself to finish using Bucky’s water and his shampoo and his soap, nervous about using resources you hadn’t before and never asked about and wouldn’t have needed one-tenth this amount of just yesterday.

You hum to soothe yourself. It’s why you purred even when Bucky wasn’t home. It never mattered before that you did. Then the humming becomes gentle singings. You thought you were still so quiet.

In total, no reasonable food could be completely cooked in the same stretch you were in the bathroom, but you exit to find both men staring from the other end of the hall.

Steve wears an expression of great admiration.

“You have a lovely voice,” he says with a smile.

Bucky frown, looking down at the sweats he gave you. “We should have let you go shopping, Stage Boy.”

“They’re great. It’s no big deal. I’m sorry to be a bother.”

Both of them step closer immediately at the first proper words they’ve ever heard from you.

“You’re not a bother, doll,” Bucky insists while Steve blurts, “you look great.”

Bucky flashes his pal ferocious side-eye, something you like to think you taught him over the last few months.

“Cozy,” Steve corrects. “You look cozy. It’s great that you’re cozy.”

All you can manage is a shrug and crossing your arms over your chest, maneuvering around the baggy shirt.

“Breakfast?”

The sizzling of something in a pan wafts to your less-sensitive ears, and the impulse to raise your head and sniff takes you by surprise. You’ll be doing that for days, at least, moving like a cat, and you wonder how stupid it must look to them.

You nod instead of reply and stalk toward the kitchen.

Bucky, however, does nod.

“Good girl,” he mutters, taking a sip of his coffee and stopping mid-swallow. The gulp is deafening. “Sorry…”

Nobody responds. All three of you exchange glances, but they aren’t familiar with your body language as you so Steve and Bucky just end up staring.

“You know what,” Bucky breaks the silence, “I’m gonna get my part of the debrief out of the way.” He chugs the rest of his mug. “You wanna check that, Steve—“ Bucky ticks his head to the growing aggression of the popping pan “—while I say ‘bye?’”

Steve, though clearly annoyed at the dismissal, steps away.

“You okay if he’s here? Would you rather be alone for a bit?” Bucky watches the last drops of coffee wriggle around.

“No, I…”

It’s weird to want so much from them and yet be so afraid of saying so. Yesterday, you could walk all over them, literally, and now treading on eggshells in the same room seems risky.

“How did you know my name?” you finally whisper.

“Well,” Bucky sighs, “I did think Alpine was a cat—your family cat—which you might come ‘round to find eventually. I kept the photo your father handed out, just in case, but…” and this part he goes very, very quiet for “…I’ve made people go missing. I know what it does to families. I want you to be happy here—or wherever,—it’s just—“

He looks over his shoulder at Steve.

You say it for him. “I can’t be cozy forever if I’m always running away.”

Bucky bites his lip. “Damn. Nat was right. You’re one smart lady.”

“With great hair,” you add on instinct.

His laugh is loud and unguarded.

Bucky plunks his mug down, grabs his keys, and turns to you at his dying chuckle.

“May I?” His arms open for a hug, and you press yourself in like you used to fall with your whole feline weight. Bucky nuzzles into your hair like he used to, too, giving your temple a kiss.

It feels normal though you’ve never felt it this way before.

“Don’t tease him too much,” Bucky warns, releasing you to stand straight. “He’s not usually this…No, he is always like this. Heart on his sleeve. He just wasn’t expecting, ya know, you.”

After a quick peek at this morning’s chef, you hold up your hands.

“No claws, I promise.”

Bucky reiterates that he’ll be back in a few hours. Steve yells a goodbye to his friend and makes his own promise to ‘take care of everything here.’

You creep up beside his spot at the stove.

Steve’s smiling. “And yes, I know that includes the poor plants.”

He watches as you struggle to say a deeply important thing, one you’ve meant to mention since last night even in the throws of shock and arguments. It’s stupid. It seems so stupid, but you have to tell him.

He’s so patient, carefully removing the pan from the heat and waiting.

“I…I don’t mind—I mean, I…like when you call me ‘babygirl.’”

You don’t get the boyish grin you expect. Steve’s smile turns subtle, a small gesture that swells into his body and makes his eyes light up.

His hand finds yours, his thumb petting your smooth skin.

“Okay, it’s time for breakfast, Babygirl, then I’ll water the plants.”

[Next Part: Codename: Agent Alpine]

[Main Masterlist; Steve Rogers Series List; Bucky Barnes Masterlist]

A/N: This is...all I had strictly planned for this series, so I'm open to more though I've no clue what it would be... Still, I hope you enjoyed!

@hisredheadedgoddess28 @irishhappiness @fallenxjas @ilovetaquitosmmmm @venunsgirl @fries11 @lovinglimerence

@bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @stellar-solar-flare @deandreamernp

@rogersbarber @blogbog710 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thiquefunlover63 @bitchy-bi-trash

@supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry

[famwhy]

Not a Morning Person

Spiderman: Across the Spiderverse

Hobie Brown X F!Reader

Synopsis: Mornings were always difficult with Hobie: he never seemed to want to get up, nor did he ever seem to want to let you to get up either.

Warning: slightly suggestive but mostly fluff.

Note: 'peak' is road slang for 'sad', 'likkle' is 'little', 'ting' is 'thing' (it seems like I need to clarify this but 'peak' can be used as a good thing and a bad thing, it depends on context. In this context, it is used to mean 'sad'.)

You loved your boyfriend—you really did. He had your whole heart in the palm of his hands and you trusted him with it; trusted him not to squeeze too hard on it—not to shatter it into a million broken shards of a love that once was.

And you damn well knew the feeling was mutual—he'd told you so himself, proclaimed it with eyes that were practically shaped into hearts as he gazed at you with that swirling sense of adoration; one that never failed to make you feel special.

But... you'd be lying if you said he couldn't get a little frustrating sometimes. Like now, for instance.

"Hobie, please."

"No." His response was curt, and very much final.

"I need to get up."

"That's peak for you then, innit?"

His snark edged one of your brows up, and you're sure you would've crossed your arms too had he not restricted your movement with his own—much stronger, might you add—limb.

Your lips parted—very much ready to have a go at him for the unwarranted attitude—when, instead of actual words, a light gasp left them; practically inaudible from how soft it was, but that didn't make what happened any less surprising.

His lips had found their way onto your neck, pressing soft, gentle kisses across the exposed area with an occasional—and very intoxicating—nip here and there. The contact flooded your vision with pink and you almost melted right in that very moment.

"Just a likkle longer, love," he muttered into your skin, lips making contact with the surface in a repeated pattern that shot tingles straight down your spine, "can't believe I got so lucky to land a pretty ting like you."

His hand slipped under your shirt; cold arm resting against the warmth of your stomach as he whispered sweet nothings into your ear in hopes of saving himself from a lecture—and you were afraid to admit that it was very much working. You were always such a sucker for sweet moments like this.

Stop it. Stand your ground, Y/N.

"Hobie."

"Hm?" His head tilted up, gaze looking at you with that sense of endearment only you were privy to receiving from him; the twitch of his lips showcasing his lovestruck smile in a show of vulnerability that, once again, only you had the pleasure of seeing on him.

His hues were softened and practically swirling with that domestic love you knew he held for you; the one that would instantly ease all his muscles and have him actively seek you out just to hold you in his arms, to love on you like he always claimed you deserved.

When you didn't respond immediately, his grip on you tightened and he pulled you further into his side; to fit against him like you were meant to be there, like he was incomplete without you—and you, without him.

Ah, you were always so weak to him when he got like this.

"...okay, we can stay like this for a little longer."

His lips tugged up and he grinned at you, lunging straight for your neck to attack you with another fit of gentle, adoring kisses—ones that made you sigh in what you could only describe as contentment, your fingers finding their way to his wicks, running through them with the bitter taste of defeat on your tongue and the casual swell of love in your heart.

Sure, Hobie wasn't much of a morning person but, to be completely honest—

—you weren't much of one either.

[aihoshiino]

haven't rly been talking about it on tumblr much but i've been following ave mujica n really enjoying it for a whole lot of reasons but i was actually rly surprised to see how many people seem really surprised/upset by the hatsuika reveal and what that means for her r/s with sakiko because for me, that fully felt like the missing piece that made this aspect of avemuji click into place for me - it felt like the final completion of all the things the show is exploring.

avemuji is (among other things but imo primarily) about the overbearing violence of existing as a child within the hierarchy of a family - as well as all the ways this manifests in the cast's biofamilies, avemuji itself can be understood as a sort of twisted deconstruction of the idea of a 'found family' group of friends in that it explicitly acknowledges and demonstrates that even a family of choice can be toxic, hierarchical and subject to abuse within its channels of power.

bc of this, incest is the natural conclusion of those themes and i genuinely think the story would be incomplete without at least gesturing to it as an idea - and moreover, i think it feels weirdly natural as the conclusion for uika's feelings about sakiko. romance is obviously and clearly a component but what she wants goes far beyond that - she needs saki to Save her, to fill every single lack and empty gap in her life, from playmate to lover to friend to protector to ward to family and even before that particular reveal, that all-consuming need struck me as being at least symbolically incestuous within the context of avemuji as a symbolic toxic family.

seeing it made textual - and by way of hatsuika performing a one-woman gothic horror soliloquy - makes me even more certain the avemuji writers know EXACTLY what they're doing and has me rly curious and excited to see how they're gonna bring it home.

that said. can someone please take mortis to like. mcdonalds or something. she's a little doll who is 3 apples tall she shouldn't be dealing with these band girl horrors!!!

[starsinthesky5]

thinking ab how Joe doing the archer pose is how everyone knows whether song bird is at the game or not. Like the bengals posting a compilation of him doing the pose or like the commentators saying the First Lady of Cincinnati is here when they see him do it 🥺

a/n: back to my usual posts!

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

them and the archer pose is so :( aghhhh.

joe always had a way of tuning out the chaos of the stadium. but when she was in the stands, it was different. there was something about her presence that shifted his focus, he could feel her even when he wasn’t looking. she always tried to blend in, tucked in the private suite with a cap on, sunglasses in her hair, a drink in her hands. trying to be as invisible as possible. but joe? he felt her. and when he did, it was like a signal.

right after the tunnel runout, when the stadium roared with anticipation and the lights blinded him for a second, joe would glance up toward the suite. if she was there, he’d feel it, the pull inside him, like he was meant to find her, like she was the reason he was running. once he stepped onto the field, he’d slow his pace just enough, his eyes sweeping the crowd until they landed on her. that’s when it happened. he’d drop to one knee, steady himself for just a beat, and with one smooth motion, he’d raise his right arm, as if drawing an invisible bowstring back.

for a split second, he’d hold it there, eyes locked with hers across the field, as if aiming right at her heart. and then...he’d release the arrow. his arm would drop slowly as he rose back up, the weight of the moment hanging in the air. he’d get back into position like it was nothing, ready to play. but that moment, that archer pose, was all for her.

it wasn’t anything anyone else noticed at first. just a small, subtle gesture. but when the bengals caught it on camera one game and posted it with the caption “target locked. 🎯”, fans started connecting the dots.

“wait…he only does that pose sometimes. that's weird, right?”

“isn't it funny how that's the same pose his girlfriend does sometimes when she's preforming. doesn't she have an unreleased song called the archer too?”

“wait. what if he only does the archer pose...when she's at the game. since it's her pose and he does it for...oh my GOD,”

“he didn’t do it last week. she must’ve been out of town,”

“archer confirmed. first lady of cincinnati is in the house!”

“i don’t even watch football (only here for my girl), but joe doing that pose when he sees her in the stands? i’m sold,”

soon, even the commentators picked up on it.

“and there it is! the archer. you know what that means,”

“looks like songbird’s in the building tonight,”

“he doesn’t do that pose unless she’s here. when she’s here, it’s like he’s a different player. unstoppable. moving with a different kind of edge. truly remarkable,”

“you can see it in his eyes when he looks for her. nothing else matters when she’s in the stands,”

the guys on the team picked up on it, too. “hey, is she coming today?” tee would ask before every game, and ja'marr would laugh, “you gotta hit that pose, bro,”. it was a whole thing.

but on the nights she wasn’t there? joe would still play hard, but there was this quiet feeling in the air. he’d still lead the team, but without her, something felt…incomplete. no archer pose. the cameras would linger, waiting for it. but it never came.

and when she was there? when he found her, her eyes locked with his from her seat, his heart racing just a little? that’s when he did it. every time. he’d raise his arm, letting everyone know. she was there. he was playing for her. the stadium would erupt, but to joe, the world would fade away. it was just them. his eyes locked on hers, and when she pressed her palm to the glass, smiling like it was just the two of them, he couldn’t help but feel it. like that arrow he just shot? it was for her. and no one else.

it wasn’t just a move. it was a promise. his way of saying i’m here. i’m with you. every step, every throw, every win.

it's for you.

[gleditsia-triacanthos]

paraplegia is not “disability lite”????

this is based on a recent in-person interaction through a support group.

i was paralyzed, in the grand scheme of things, SUPER recently, so i understand how it feels to be disabled in both an apparent way and a non-apparent way. i’ve had the condition that contributed to my paralysis (cEDS) my whole life, and it causes plenty of other complications.

it’s frustrating to have a non-apparent disability. there are unique challenges that come with having a non-apparent disability. it is ALSO frustrating to have an apparent disability. my treatment by other people has 100% changed since my sci, and not necessarily for the better.

a few ambulatory people seem to have this idea that being paralyzed from the waist down means you’re able-bodied sans your legs and you suddenly have endless empathy and help from society. this, i would hope goes without saying, is absolutely not true.

paraplegia is often caused by some underlying condition, meaning plenty of paralyzed people are also independently chronically ill. even in the case of injury or accident-induced paralysis, the paralysis itself causes all kinds of lovely symptoms, including muscle spasms and bladder retention or incontinence. i have to self-catheterize. incomplete SCIs can cause nerve pain. the act of using a manual chair to get around in public at all times can mean damage to the upper body and pressure sores.

i’ve had a few more doors held for me now that i’ve started going out in public alone, but being so apparently disabled also means stares. everywhere. not just from kids. it means people feel like they can push you out of the way to reach something in the grocery store. it means people will speak to you like you’re an elementary schooler. it means that even on your good days, other people will remind you of your disability and ask invasive questions about your “car accident.”

i’m not interested in the apparent-vs.-non-apparently suffering olympics, i’m just hoping to offer what seems like an underexpressed perspective.

peace + love. sorry for the rant.

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty: ouroboros

tw: non-con mention, heavy emotions, hurt/comfort

Simon feels sick. 

He feels sick in the way that medicine can’t cure and alcohol can’t numb. This condition is a life long affliction that’s been hiding dormant beneath his skin, patiently waiting for the perfect moment to sprout up and ruin him. Fire is the only thing that can purge the feeling that hangs over his head like a noose waiting to string him up in the gallows. Feet dangling, trachea crushing—would it be enough to cleanse him? 

It’s been nearly half an hour since you last said anything, though the passage of time in his mind would convince him that it’s been days. Your voice has not rattled his ear drums in so long that he fears he might never hear anything from you ever again, and the arms that wrap around you to keep you held close to him urge to squeeze you. Maybe if he compresses you tightly enough, he can get you to coo and smile like you always do. 

Instead, Simon’s eyes focus on where his hand still rests on your upper arm. His stomach churns at the sight, and he feels bile poke and prod at the thin lining of his stomach as his body recalls the way your hands pushed at his chest—how your voice cracked when you looked up at him—the terror in your eyes brands him a monster.

Did he go too fast? Did you see his playful teasing as something more predatory? The tightness in your throat, the desperation in your voice—was that fear instead of desire? Did you not want his hands on you?

Can you even stand the touch of him now? 

Solicitude getting the better of him, Simon shifts beneath you, rocking your body to the side. His heart skips a beat when he hears your disgruntled whine as you nuzzle closer to him. Your arms snake around his torso. Face buried into his ribs, you attach yourself to him like a parasite—some lesser creature who would crumble without the aid of a host to keep you on your feet. 

“Chip?” His susurrus is a soft rumble against your cheek, but you can only bring yourself to respond with a grunt. “Baby, what’s goin’ on?” 

You swallow and it’s thick like molasses in the back of your throat. The pounding terror in your chest has dwindled over the last little while, but you still feel the way it lurks throughout your abdomen. It nudges its nose against the chambers of your heart and bites at the quivering muscle with venomous teeth. It injects the worst recollections into you. Mint breath. Blood flowers. Green eyes. 

“I dunno,” you mutter. 

Simon attempts to move again, but your constricting grip only grows more firm around him. Nose against his side, you don’t think you could stand looking at him—at him looking at you. If you pull away from him now, he might see the blood that’s been leaking out of you since you were sixteen. 

His hand moves up from your arm to cup the back of your head. “Did I do somethin’ wrong?” 

“No.” Your answer is quick—decisive. “No, it’s not you.” 

Your adamant denial offers Simon only minimal reprieve. “Talk to me, baby. What’s goin’ on?” 

His begging is only met with more silence. 

“Please, Chip. Let me help you.” 

Ouroboros—that’s what this feeling is. You haven’t been able to place your thumb on it until this moment despite the fact it’s plagued you for most of your life. This cycle of pain. Of remembering. You’ve been forced to devour yourself whole, even the blackened rot and decay of your skin. Every time someone finds you with your mouth full, they always beg the same thing. 

But you cannot clamp your maw down to cut yourself off any more than you can spit your body back out. 

Still, your core engages—you’d at least like to try. 

“It’s Marco,” you say, timid voice fracturing. Your words are incomplete. Broken. You try to spew them out anyway. “I… dunno how to say it.” 

Simon’s muscles twitch beneath you. “Did he say something to you?”

“No. Well, yes, but-” You cut yourself off with a frustrated huff. 

“Hey, one step at a time,” Simon says softly, grounding you. “Take it slow. Start from the beginning.” 

Your lungs expand with breath so violently that your diaphragm shakes and stutters with the movement. Oxygen burrows into the alveoli where it stings with a pain that quiets the wicked humming in your brain. 

You step into that kitchen again. 

Blood on linoleum—you breathe it in—

“I… didn’t tell you everything about… the day Marco killed my mum.” It’s the first admittance of your sin. Of the wrongs that were forced upon you that day. Still curled against Simon’s side, you feel your muscles liquify as if you’re about to deliquesce into the couch. “It’s really hard to say.” 

“I’ve got all day, sweetheart,” Simon soothes as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. 

Nodding, your eyes focus on the coffee table in front of you. Something tangible. Stagnant. 

“It was the last day of school before the end of term. I had just got home when I found mum’s body in the kitchen. I still see her like that, sometimes. Or I dream about her. Hunched over below the kitchen sink. Marco had… had stabbed her. I remember just being so in shock at her body and just- like, none of it made sense. So I just sort of froze, and I didn’t hear Marco when he came up behind me. He pinned me against the wall and he had this knife that he kind of kept up to my throat and stuff so that I wouldn’t move or fight him.

“He… he was the worst. Grinning and chuckling about killing my mum, and talking about my dad dying too. He was just so fucking arrogant. Like he thought he was untouchable or something. But he explained sort of what was going on and was pressuring me into paying off my dad’s debt, and I just agreed because I was too afraid to die but… he said he would make a deal with me.”

Spittle clogs the back of your throat and you cough. Instinctively, Simon pats your back—your eyes squeeze tight at his touch. 

“He said that if I… If I had sex with him, he would cut the debt a little. O-Or that if I was a virgin, he would cut it in half. And he just started—like—to put his hand up my skirt and I just- I-” 

Your body screams. Despite the overall callosity that taints your skin, that terror still nettles in the back of your mind. If you think about it too hard, you can still feel the way his hands defiled you that day, and your stomach twists worse than it did the night Andrei pulled his knife out on Simon. 

“I just remember thinking to myself that I was glad mum is dead,” you admit with asperity. “Like—I know it sounds crazy—but I don’t think I could have lived with myself if he had raped me in front of her, you know?” 

Each word you speak has Simon’s body growing rigid. You feel the way his muscles harden into iron and stone as he holds you close—you hear how his heart thrums away in his chest like a drum calling soldiers to wage war. “Did he?” 

“Rape me?” you confirm. “No. He stopped when I told him that I would pay it.” 

Simon’s head rocks against yours as he nods. “You said this happened at the end of term… were you in uni?” 

“No, I was in secondary school. I was… I was sixteen,” you reveal. “Marco knew I was in school, so he told me he was going to be nice and wait until I was old enough to get a job to start paying things back. And like, I couldn’t have ever gone to uni like that. Working enough to pay for housing, and the costs, and paying Marco? I just went straight to work as soon as I could. Never got a degree; never got a job that would actually pay me well enough to live…

“But I made do. You know, I made the payments as best as I could all while keeping on top of things for the most part. It helped that I was living with Aelin and John for a little while, so I didn’t have to worry about rent until I was like, nineteen. But Marco, sometimes he… uses it against me.” 

The more you speak, the more enervated you feel. It nestles into the marrow of your bones until your body feels twice as heavy. Nothing feels real. Nothing feels tangible. Except for maybe Simon’s bare skin against your own. 

“What does he use against you?” he prods, pushing you to further explain. 

“He’s always kept that offer hanging over my head. About me having sex with him.” Chapped lips rub up against one another and you find your tongue darting out of your mouth to wet them before you continue. “Like… that time you and Andrei fought in the alley? He said that he was going to have to raise my monthly payments because of that, since it was kind of my fault that Andrei’s nose got broken… fifteen hundred a month. I got so frustrated that I started crying because there was no way I was going to afford that so he… kissed me. We were in the middle of the laundromat in broad daylight and he just held me on that bench a-and when he was done he said he would only make me pay twelve-fifty instead.” 

“He did that to you?” Simon is apoplectic. His hatred bleeds into his tone as your voice trails off at the end of your spiel. It grows as unbridled rage beneath his skin until his muscles are twitching. 

“He’s done worse,” you dismiss. 

“Like what?” 

The temptation to prevaricate gnaws at you like a dog with a bone as sour memories tickle the back of your mind. Your toes prod at the edge of a threshold. There is a line that you’re not sure if you want to cross or not, but the veil that tickles your fingertips promises relief. The temptation whispers that if you can muster the bravery to toss yourself to the other side, you could—even if only for a moment—find some sort of peace. 

“You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to,” Simon hums when your silence begins to stretch. 

“No, I want to. I need to say it,” you assure. “It’s just… hard.” 

“Take your time, baby. I’m right here.” 

Your body requires a few more deep breaths before your brain feels quiet enough for you to sift through the monstrous amalgamation of memories Marco has forced upon you throughout the years. They weave through the grey matter in your brain. They root and feed on the most vulnerable parts of you until they shoot through your cranium and strangle you from the inside out. 

You have to purge it, lest it consumes you. 

“Before Marco moved our meeting place to the laundromat by my apartment, he had us meet at a pawn shop,” you say. The strength it takes to keep your voice from quivering is exhausting, but you push through the pain like you always do. 

“Tsar Trading.” He says it like it’s a statement rather than a question—as if he already has the exact shape of the building memorized beneath the pads of his fingertips. 

You nod. “Yeah. Tsar Trading. Usually I would just go up to the counter and drop off my payment to him, but this one time when I was maybe nineteen, soon after I started living on my own, I didn’t have enough. I had gotten really sick and wasn’t able to work, so my pay wasn’t as much as it usually is. I tried asking for an extension, or offered to pay the missing amount and more with my next payment, but he told me to follow him into the back of the shop. 

“The building doesn’t look that big from the outside, but when he brought me back it looked sort of like a warehouse with these shelves and just—like—these people walking around and I just… he brought me to this chair. Just a simple plastic school chair, and he m-made me sit in it. And I just remember noticing all the blood stains around the cement and thinking that he was going to kill me. I had messed up, and he was going to kill me just like he killed mum.” 

Always dripping, more tears begin to leak from your eyes where they wet Simon’s bare skin, cementing your cheek to his side. Sniffling, you do your best to wipe the moisture away, but it’s never-ending. Eventually, you give up. Simon does not make mention of the moisture on his skin, and keeps quiet as he lets you pull yourself back together.

“But as I’m sitting there, he reaches for my hand and… and he—like—makes me… he makes me t-touch him through his clothes, and he tells me that I’ve got two options. That I can—fuck… I hate this. He says I can either use my mouth, or use my hand, and so I just do it because I dunno what else to do and the whole time he’s just- he’s just talking so much. Saying how he wishes I’d let him fuck me and that I wouldn’t have to worry so much about the debt if I’d stop b-being a choosy minx about it and—oh my god, Simon—so many people were just- they just watched! 

“They all watched him do that to me! And they’d whistle and tease, and Marco, he would keep stopping so that it would last longer. I couldn’t even cry. I just tried to push through it until he was finished and then he kisses me and tells me not to worry about the rest of the money for that month and sends me on my way like he didn’t just- just…

“I-I’ve been—fuck—I’ve been so afraid to ever have sex because he always holds me being a virgin over my head like he can help me, and I’ve never told anyone about any of this. Simon, I-I feel so bad. Like I’ve been hiding something terrible from you. I’m so sorry, but I just- Simon I’ve never felt about anyone like I feel about you! You make me feel so good—so loved—and I was worried that if you ever knew what Marco did to me t-that you wouldn’t like me anymore because you’d think I’m gross, and I’m just s-so scared all the time, and I just—fuck!—I don’t know what to do!” 

Pulling apart at the seams, your old scars regress back into open wounds, and you spill out of yourself—both the destroyer and the victim. Simon’s body shifts beneath you as he pulls you closer. Arms like sutures, he stitches you back together as he holds you firmly against him, refusing to allow you to fall apart past the point of no return. His body heats against yours as vitriol warms his skin and sends his heart pounding into overdrive—his knuckles itch. His fingernails yearn for the color of ichor to soak their cuticles. Each phalange that twitches in his fingers craves the sharp crack of cartilage to pop beneath their grasp. 

Simon’s tongue prods his teeth—he’s checking how sharp they are. He’s gauging how hard he needs to bite to end Marco’s life. 

And still—even with all this rage nipping at his heels—he snuffs it out in favor of holding you. Vengeance can come later. It can come when you’re no longer crumbling in his grasp. 

“I’ve got ya, baby,” Simon whispers, voice hardly cutting through the sharp squeal of your wailing. You feel impossibly small in his arms—like this is the first time he’s held you and realized just how fragile you are. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’d never leave you.” A culmination of fury and frustration constricts his trachea, and his voice grows tense with each word that he speaks. “None of that was your fault. You hear me? None of that.” 

“It feels like it is,” you confess, anguish heavy on your tongue. “I feel like I’m just prolonging the inevitable.” 

“It’s not your fault,” he reiterates. “Marco’s not gonna lay a fuckin’ hand on you ever again.” 

Your silence is the only proof of your doubt that Simon needs to witness, but there are other hints. He feels it in the trembling of your body—how you quiver and pulse beneath him like a writhing animal lying in wait of unforgiving teeth and greedy claws. It’s painted all over your skin—how you refuse to look at him; like you can’t stand being seen. 

“This doesn’t change anything,” Simon whispers. He’s cradling your head, lips pressing against your skull as if he wishes to hold you properly. Not even his arms are large enough to embrace you whole; sorrow and all. “It doesn’t. This doesn’t change how I feel ‘bout you. It doesn’t make me love you any less.” 

His words get your head to perk slightly. Your eyes are raw—your cheeks stick to Simon’s ribs as if your bodies have begun to meld together. “You mean that?” 

Simon nods. “I do. I swear it. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” 

Neither of you say anything for a long while after that. Your words are spent. Your body is spent. Still curled into Simon’s side, you are stuck in a terrible state of the in between. Chained to purgatory. While you feel his body against yours—the way he kisses the top of your head, and how his heat bleeds into you—your mind is elsewhere. Severed from your physical form. 

You are in that kitchen. You are in that warehouse. You are in that car. 

The past haunts you with casual smirks and the huff of a breath across the apples of your cheeks. All it does is linger—all you can do is remember. 

So you remember. It washes over you the way shame burns the layers of your epidermis, or the way a kiss sours in your throat. You remember until the firm pulse of Simon’s heart beats it out of you. A fist against your jaw, each throb immolates the pain until it is numbed—until it’s small enough to tuck away beneath your tongue where it can wait to grow and choke you once again down the road. 

For now, it sits and waits. Patiently. Quiet enough for you to forget about it. 

You are the lightest you have felt in years. 

Ouroboros—you’ve finally managed to snap your jaw shut and swallow down the parts of you that you always thought you never could. 

“I think… I think I wanna take a bath.” It feels like the first thing you’ve said in years; the first thing you’ve said with this new body of yours. 

Simon nods. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll get one runnin’ for you, sweetheart.” 

It takes Simon ten minutes to get the water to the right temperature. He’s not used to taking baths—he can’t even recall the last time he even had one that was by choice. By the time he’s satisfied with the steam that emanates from the spout, his heart squeezes so violently in his chest he’s certain he’ll pass out right there on the bathroom floor. But he doesn’t. As always, he persists. 

Though he doesn’t have any soap fit for a bubble bath, he does his best with what he has, and decides to add some of your shower gel into the water. He froths the bubbles up by hand, swirling his arm through the water until there’s a decent layer and the scent hangs heavy enough in the air for it to make a difference. Simon stares at the way it swirls in front of him—he hopes he hasn’t tainted it by touch alone. 

He tries to leave the room so that you can bathe by yourself, but he stays when you ask him to. Your voice is timid—impossibly small—when you ask him to turn around while you undress, but he follows your wishes without a second thought. You attempt to meet his gaze in the mirror before you sink into the water, but his eyes are shut tight. 

The sight makes your heart flutter. 

Once you’re settled into the bath, Simon sits on the floor with his back against the tub. Still shirtless, you catch the way his skin tightens from the cold enamel, but he doesn’t even hiss at the feeling. The water swaddles you with steam and a tingling burn that makes you hum as your head leans back against the wall. Somehow, your mind feels completely void of any thoughts. You are empty—a blank slate waiting to be reformed and filled. 

“Do you work tonight?” You don’t know why you ask it, but the question slips past your lips anyway. 

“I can call out,” Simon says, perking his ear toward you, yet refusing to look over his shoulder. 

“No, that’s okay,” you hum. Limber fingers weave through the water as you play with the thin layer of bubbles along the surface. They sizzle and pop like a fryer as you move, and you close your eyes as you enjoy what little sounds you can hear. “I feel… surprisingly fine. I’ve never… talked about that before. To anyone. I always thought it would feel like the end of the world, and it sort of did, but now it… doesn’t.” 

He nods. Knees bending, he rests his arms out on them as he stares at the cabinets in front of him. The pale paint is peeling on the corner a little, and he notes how they could use a good scrub due to the water stains. “I’m sure it wasn’t easy. I’m glad you shared it with me. You can tell me anythin’ you want to; I swear it won’t ever change anythin’ between us.” 

Unsure of how to respond, you allow yourself to sink deeper into the water. Your knees poke further out of the surface as your neck is consumed in a mess of bubbles and soap. Before your brain can cook up a coherent response to Simon’s affirmations, he shatters the silence with his croaking voice. 

“I’m sorry ‘bout movin’ too fast. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” 

“What?” Your voice fractures in your confusion and you find yourself staring at the back of his head. “Simon, no, no I- you didn’t do anything wrong. I really wanted it. Like… I feel a little pathetic about how badly I wanted it—wanted you.” A chuckle bleeds past your lips, and as the sound reverberates off of the tiles around you, Simon feels it crash straight through his chest. “It was… the mint.” 

Simon’s confusion visibly forms in the tension of his shoulders. “Mint?” 

“Yeah, like… This is going to sound dumb, probably, but… Marco, he… always smells like mint. Like his breath? It’s like he’s always chewing on gum or something like that,” you explain. “And I just—I dunno—I smelled it on your breath and it just sorta… my brain just sort of freaked out, like I couldn’t make sense of anything.” 

As you speak, Simon’s eyes begin to wander up. They focus away from the cupboard door in front of him and onto what little he can see of the countertop. He sees his toothbrush. His toothpaste. And then yours. 

Kids fruity toothpaste. 

No thanks. I… erm… don’t like mint. 

“It’s not your fault,” you add in a panic. “You couldn’t have known about that, it was just sort of one of those things, and I’ve never really mentioned it before, so-” 

“It’s okay, baby,” Simon interjects softly. “I know how nuanced this shit gets.” 

A soft, dainty breath exhales from your lungs as you let go of the words that had built up in your throat. Simon’s mind is swirling. You can see it in the muscles that line his spine and the twitching in his jaw. He stares at his hands as he picks at his short-cut nails, body curled forward like a dog with his hackles raised. 

Water sloshes around you as you curl forward. The edge of the tub is lukewarm against your cheek as you rest your head on it, and you sigh as more of Simon’s face comes into your view. Careful fingers rise out of the water as you trace a line along his shoulder, leaving a layer of glistening moisture to shine beneath the vanity lights. 

“Si?” 

He does not hesitate to look at you when you beckon. Neck craning, when he looks at you, his eyes dilate, forcing his pupils to swallow the sweet warmth of his irises. He focuses on the small curve of your lips—weary, but still there—and when your hands wander up to his face, he leans into your palm. 

“Thank you. For everything. I… don’t know what I would do without you,” you whisper. 

Body twisting, Simon brings a hand up to cup over yours, keeping you pressed against him for a short moment before pulling you away. Then, with a softness he can’t remember ever having mustered before, he kisses each of your knuckles before rubbing his thumb over them. 

“I’d do anythin’ for you,” he says. “I mean it. Anything.” He swallows. “I love you.” 

There is still that twitch in his fingers—that buzzing electricity that jolts through him, urging his muscles into action. His lungs expand as if pushing him to run, and his knuckles yearn to feel that familiar ache that always follows after they’ve kissed soft flesh or jutting bone. All that tension and virulent desire melts away the moment Simon sees the warm smile that graces your lips at his confession. 

He realizes that he can put away those bad habits and macabre desires if it means he gets to see you like this—even if it’s only temporary. 

“I love you, too.”

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